She seemed to assume that it must certainly be something she had said. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. He pointed to where the lights still burned in Anna’s windows. “I don’t see at all how you can be managing,” said Miss Stanley, and Ann Veronica hastened to reply, “I do on very little. ‘Do not smile at me and try to make me not angry any more,’ Melusine warned, ‘for I am very angry indeed with you. We have to get them to let us in for the profits of their business, and in return we ask them to—dinner.
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